Macrocosm
by SilverCascade
Summary: There's a reason for so much beer at his place. After all, the universe dictates a star must die to be born. A series of ficlets about Angel de la Muerte, wrestling, and alcohol.
1. Nebula

**"Non est ad astra mollis e terris via."**  
**~Seneca**

* * *

Angel touched beer for the first time in years when he met Eddie Pryor. He'd never acquired the taste his high school friends had, choosing instead to sip on cola and jack in moderation whilst his friends knocked back beer after beer. He found it to taste rather like what he imagined the underside of an old gym shoe would. But when he returned to Eddie's house after the first practice match of their group, all the man had in his stores was lager.

Not wanting to appear rude, he reclined on the plush couch and accepted the offer, watching with amusement as Eddie downed three ice-cold cans in the time it took Angel, with a slight grimace, to drink the contents of one.

"Want another, Angel? Are you a lightweight or will you outdrink even Dionysus?" His laugh was a benevolent boom, and Angel found himself smiling at the comparison he did not understand.

"I'll take another one, thanks," he said, but as soon as Eddie's back faced him, spine curved as he stooped to grab the second six-pack from the fridge, he winced. This was going to be a long evening if he was expected to outdrink somebody with a name fancier than his own. Dionysus, huh? Sounds old school. Bring it on. He had to stay on this man's good side; Eddie was, after all, the leader and recruiter of the pro-wrestling teams in the modern Lucha Libre world, at least in Steelport, and the fact he had shown an interest in the young Angel was flattering beyond measure. Being invited to his place for drinks and chatter had been an even greater privilege, and the young man didn't have to wonder if his career as a fighter rested on this evening - because it did. If I don't screw this up, I could be great. I could be something amazing.

"Here." Eddie slid the can over the glass coffee table, his mask shining in the hazy light of the chandelier. The room in which they sat was spacious, and it consisted of the entirety of the downstairs of Eddie's massive home. A tour had been offered, of course, and the bright-eyed young man took it in with excitement. The huge, towering walls upholding every floor, the luxurious carpets into which his bare feet sunk, the wide, open-air back garden - oh, it was a garden alright, for no "yard" ever contained heady red roses or stoic, elegant irises, nor trees that towered over the house itself - and the seemingly endless supply of frivolities Eddie showcased was astounding. Angel had felt overwhelmed afterwards, but as he sipped from the second cold can - it didn't taste _that_ bad, he realised - he began to feel more at ease. Eddie went on to say the words that would convince him to have just one more beer.

"A man who can handle his drink is a man I can understand."


	2. Protostar

They became friends quickly, for they had much in common: wrestling, their love of loud music, drinks. Eddie and Angel could talk for hours about most anything - they once had a two hour long discussion about the camel spider and animal-inspired wrestling moves. They'd meet at least weekly, but usually more often, to drink and chat, either at a bar or one of their places - though Angel was embarrassed of his small flat in Steelport's seedy New Baranec - or they would watch matches, be it live in Arena or on the television. They had wrestling practice every week, and they trained hard together: there was one night a week when they would both go dry - no alcohol at all, _gracias!_ - and their competition would be spurred on by friendly rivalry on the weights at the gym. Eddie almost always won, but Angel didn't mind. He left the gym weary but content, sweating but smiling.

It wasn't long before they began competing in real matches.

Eddie had been the one to turn push to shove, suggesting they throw themselves into the spotlight with some serious wrestling. Though his friend wondered if they were ready, he didn't protest, for he was also eager to get his taste of the life Eddie often talked about - the life where all they did was fight, for honor, pride, and everything else they held dear. Lucha libre would be their lives, he said, and the world would love them for it.

Angel lost his first match; Eddie won his.

The younger man tried to stay strong, smiling as Eddie suggested a night of drinking for them and their coaches. He went along with it, and for the first few hours, he drank as much beer as his friend, if not more. His coach, a weathered old man with a drooping moustache, clamped his hand on Angel's shoulder as he swayed towards the bar for the upteenth time.

"Angel, son, I think you need to take it easy. Your loss isn't the end of the world, nor the end of you. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

The man laughed gaily, a languid grin fixed on his face as he patted his superior. "I'm fine, I'm fine! I'm just - hic! haa! - helping Eddie celebrate! Eddie's gonna be amaaaazing!" He proceeded to hiccup numerous more times, before stuttering out his order to the bartender.

Eddie was on the other side of the bar, body slung around his prizes - a belt across his hips that glittered in the dim lights, a bottle of beer in each hand, and his arms cradling two scantily-clad girls who wanted nothing more than to grind with him in time to the pumping hip-hop and bass on the dancefloor.

"Aaaaangel, the Castor to my Pollux! Bring yourself to the corner of mirth, my friend!" He pushed past the women - though not before giving them a long, low look - and headed for his friend, crushing him in a tight bear hug despite his protests.

"Eddie-"

"Angel, no!" He took his friend by the shoulders, a startling smile splitting his face as he shook the other man. "You must set an example for the others! You must call me Killbane!"

"But Eddie, why-"

"Killbane," he insisted, nodding.

"Killbane," said Angel, finding the stage name of his friend sour in his mouth. "Right."

"That's it! Let's have a round of applause for Angel de la Muerte! Stronger than Samson, smarter than Daedalus, and with a heart seen only in the most valiant of men!"

The young wrestler begrudgingly accepted the raucous applause and bowed with gusto, knowing, even through the pleasant drunken haze, he had done nothing to deserve this. He vowed the next time he met a crowd of such magnitude, he would be bowing for something he had earned.


	3. Yellow dwarf

Angel's grin had not wavered for five whole minutes, and though his face began to ache, he couldn't stop smiling. The lights flashed around him, green and yellow, and the ring was his stage: his adversary had been helped up by the referee, and after they had shaken hands and congratulated each other on a good match, the other man limped away. He bowed, the crowd's screams of adoration echoing in his ears. He was the Super K Cup Champion. Crouching and rising, his body working faster than his mind, he cupped a hand behind an ear and waved at the crowd to shout louder - which they did - and he revelled in the roars.

"Who am I? That's right, Angel de la Muerte!"

The crowd screeched again, wailing their love for him in ragged, surrendering gasps. He had given them a match they would never forget, this lithe young thing that fought like a man twice his calibre, and they felt they owed him everything.

Waving for a few more glorified seconds, he walked off the stage path backwards, beaming through his mask at his newfound fans.

"Angel, that was incredible!" his coach said, patting his back, a weary smile stretching his moustache. "Eddie's waiting for you out back. He says he planned a party for this very moment."

"Hope I didn't make him wait too long," he said, panting slightly as he towelled himself dry.

"He's just happy you had such a good match."

"I'll bet." He smiled, chugging back a bottle of water and heading out, not bothering to slide on a shirt. The cold, night air whirled around him, darkness pierced by rays exuded by the arena. Eddie was outside, as expected, but his massive, half-naked form was crammed into the front seat of a Compensator. He whooped when he saw Angel, and the strangers - mainly dancing girls, but there were also enthusiastic young men with spiked hair and wide grins - burst into an allegro of applause.

"And here he is, the man who could rival the mighty Achilles - Angel de la Muerte!" His friend was already drunk, and not wanting to be responsible for any deaths, he shoved Eddie to one side and took the wheel. The small crowd burst into applause again, and Angel realised that they, too, were inebriated. Shaking his head but smiling, he pulled the car away from the curb, swerved dangerously to the left and headed along the main road towards the bars in Yearwood.

The first club at which they arrived, they were almost thrown out, so loud and raunchy was the party, until the bartender realised the heads of the group were the renowned Killbane and Angel de la Muerte, the two of the hottest new wrestlers in the game. They were re-welcomed with open arms, along with their overjoyed crew, and the dance floor was their domain entirely. Tuneless singing filled the air as the karaoke machine was hijacked; the burning noise, along with the strobe lights set into motion and the heaviness of the smothering air pushed the two men from their raving group and into the bar area. Perched upon the stools, they ordered drink after drink, talking about the match and the evening and their future plans and the upcoming tournaments.

As Angel downed his fifth beer and Eddie, his tenth, the older man turned to his younger friend and stared at him hard. Through his colourful mask, Eddie's eyes were narrowed and fierce, and, for a brief moment, Angel was unnerved. But he brushed it off as one of Eddie's drunken tendencies and knocked back the last dregs of his drink.

"Angel, my friend, the Remus to my Romulus!"

"Eddie-"

"Please, Angel! I've told you to call me Killbane in public."

"Of course."

Eddie paused, stare not wavering. "I have a grand proposition, one that will benefit us both and allow us to scale the sides of Olympus. We will be heroes on Earth, Angel, and then... then, we ascend. I think you should hear me out."

"Sure, go ahead. You've intrigued me, Ed- I mean, Killbane."

"Alright. Alright." Eddie swayed, firstly towards Angel and then away, far enough that his friend thought he was going to fall and clamped his hand around Eddie's thick arm. Heaving him up, Angel steadied him and waited for him to continue. "This is what I was thinking."

"Yes?" Angel suppressed a smirk; his friend could sometimes spout ludicrous babble when intoxicated.

"We should form a tag team. Wrestle _together_." His hands spread out in the air, and his eyes sparkled. "We wrestle together so we don't have to wrestle each other. We can be the greats... together. You and me. The Deathbringers, the Pale Riders of the Apocalypse."

"That... That's actually a good idea."

"I am full of good ideas, my friend," he said, slapping Angel on the shoulder and booming with laughter. Standing, he wobbled to the Dance Dance Revolution machine in the corner.

"If you can remember it tomorrow, then come and tell me," Angel chuckled. "You're such a lightweight."


	4. Red giant

The screams were deafening as Angel de la Muerte's piledriver slammed his opponent into the floor, and Eddie stood, watching his friend and urging on the crowd. Their other opponent leaped onto his back, but with one massive hand, the Walking Apocalypse plucked and flung the body across the arena and towards the audience.

Roars of approval rang out over the commentators - this was the big leagues, after all - and if the Pale Riders won this match, it would be their fourth consecutive tournament win, a streak not achieved by any tag-team duo. Yet.

"Oh! Now that's what I call a drill, Bobby!" Zach's voice echoed through the stadium as a hush fell over the crowd, watching the man Angel almost killed rise again, charging towards him with a roar that tore at his ears. The young wrestler sidestepped the oncoming man, watching him sail headfirst into the ring ropes, only to be pinged back onto the stage and land on the floor with a thud.

As the referee counted backwards from ten, the man did not move.

"Three... two... one!" He approached Eddie and Angel, grabbing their wrists and thrusting them into the air. "The Pale Riders take home the Dioscuri cup!"

The crowd exploded with delight. The sweating, exhausted wrestlers grinned widely, and through their intricate masks they shared a look of pride, happy to be seen with each other.

After basking in the sinuous waves of approval and worship, the duo collected their trophy and headed back, the rear exit brimming with their ever-growing loyal entourage. Waving the glistening golden cup with vigour, each man holding one handle, they earned another explosion of joy from their admirers.

They sauntered into any and every bar - no charge, no worries, no questions - they were overnight celebrities, for the Pale Riders had been broadcast on every wrestling channel in the Americas. Having to physically fight off the women - and some men - that threw themselves at their feet had its own charms, and for the first time in their lives, the men tasted real fame. Angel found it satisfying, an interesting if complex blend of dirt and glittering insanity, of starstruck superfans filled with wonder and the increasing pressure to upkeep the good work. Eddie thought it the best thing that had ever happened, the sacrificial-like adoration, a taste of a life that could be even sweeter, of a life that would taste like the most decadent wine flowing from Dionysius' fingertips.

Angel leaned over the bar, elbow propping up his brimming, giddy head, and he smiled. The fans were around him, an unstoppable swarm of good energy and good drinks.

"Angel, Angel! Can I buy you a beer?" The voice was chirping, pleasant.

"Angel! Over here! Can I get an autograph?"

"I love you!"

"You're amazing!"

Lips spreading into a lemon sorbet grin, he high-fived the people closest to him, and, with a lolling arm, signed the t-shirt held out to him. The people before him thrust notes at the bartender, and though he tried to refuse their hospitality, they bought him drink after drink after drink. It wasn't long before he was drunk, winking at giggling girls and showcasing some wrestling moves on willing participants. Gentlemanly at best, Angel still maintained his languorous dignity when inebriated. As his coach approached him, Angel swung his body towards the old man, flinging his arms around frail shoulders.

"Angel, I see you are enjoying your evening." His kind face was weighed down with alcohol, but he nodded benevolently in his general direction. A nod was the only answer the old man received, and Angel staggered away, supported by his crowd of newfound admirers.

Meanwhile, Eddie was lost in a sea of bodies, enjoying the hot sweat and musk of humans against him. He was a God among men, the voice in his head amplified by the liquid might in his veins, and he relished at being able to walk among mortals. Pushing through them, for they didn't see his towering form over their rowdy displays of undiluted joy, Eddie began to talk, loudly and wildly, about his love.

"Aphrodite, my beautiful, fantastical, astounding, lustrous lady! She has blessed us all with fine muscles, sinewy worlds of flesh and bones, and she has taught us how to be the bestest… besting. Best." The crowd parted for him, like Moses and the Red Sea, and he felt the heady swing of power as he sauntered through the gap. Kissing four women at once, tongues snaking together, blinking against the strobe lights, and enjoying the cool, liquid touch of their fingers, the man sighed with pleasure. "This is it. This is Olympus!"

Groping the air and swaggering forward, he found himself downing another glass of golden confidence, the raucous roar of the crowd urging him on as he tried to trail his tongue along a thin, tanned stomach of a stranger.

"Kill-bane! Kill-bane! Kill-bane!" It was unanimous. It was perfect.

Angel swayed forward, and, leaning on his coach, winked at Eddie, who winked back. This evening was too perfect to end, and it was time they moved venues to keep the live wire of excitement active. Too caught up in the moment to care, Angel wrapped the crowd around him, encouraging them with slurred cries as they hurtled towards the clubs and bars ahead. Champagne bottles popped open and brassy-gold fountains spilled out. Copious amounts of thick beige froth poured into their mouths.

Eddie waved a hand at his chauffeur, who looked out of place in his black suit and solemn face. He bowed and entered the limousine, intending to follow the over excited crowd to their locations for the remainder of the night.

Together, the Pale Riders threw themselves into the new ring, the ring of people, and let themselves be marched out of the venue. They had no need for a vehicle, for the adoring crowd would take them to the ends of the earth. The wrestlers were hoisted above their fans, supported by wave after wave of human scaffolding.


	5. Supernova

"So, Angel and Eddie-"

"Please, it's Killbane."

"Yes. Killbane. What can you tell us about the future of the Pale Riders?"

Angel sipped the Martini, the dry, olive-filled taste a distinct contrast to the beer he drank these days. Eddie glanced at his partner, before leaning forward and addressing the interviewer as if they were the only two in the room.

"We head for the peaks. We are going higher, friend, and like Typhon to challenge Zeus. We will scale Olympus and reach the heights of the Gods."

Amused by the extravagance of the man and his words, the interviewer nodded. "And you, Angel?"

"Well, Eddie said those words to me when he proposed the idea of a tag team," he said, swallowing the olive and pulling the cocktail stick from his lips. "Of course, it sounds much better now, because he isn't hammered."

The studio audience burst into hearty laughter, and Angel held up his drink to toast the goodness in the atmosphere. Even the interviewer shook his head, rouged lips split in a benign guffaw, and Eddie coloured. His jaw locked as the laughter persisted.

"But," Angel said, quieting the audience with his firm assurance, "he was right. The Pale Riders have a long way to go, but I wouldn't be having half as much fun if Eddie wasn't with me."

Eddie forced a smile as the crowd clapped.

"To Killbane," said his friend, nudging Eddie as he raised his glass to the sky. "And the Pale Riders."

"To Killbane," echoed the crowd, "and the Pale Riders!"

Eddie reached into the cooler at his feet as the waves of mirth died down, pulling out another beer as the host talked to Angel and asked questions about upcoming tournaments in which they were entered.

The young wrestler was having the time of his life. Sure, the way the cameras constantly flashed in his eyes may have been irritating, but the attention he received from the media, the fans, and the other wrestlers was amazing. He smiled as the interviewer asked about the upcoming Murderbrawl and whether the duo would be participating.

"I don't know. It's still a while away." He turned to Eddie. "What do you think?"

"Of course!" exclaimed the huge man, happy to be in the warmth of the limelight once more. All cameras zoomed in on his face, and he focused on utilising every trick Angel had shown him about addressing crowds. Sitting with his eyes open and eager, his back straight and frame upright, an air of confident relaxation surrounded him. "We were born to do this, and we are but slaves to fate."

The audience burst into applause as he flashed a smile to the cameras, baring his teeth. A muted sparkle hung in his eyes, one that Angel didn't see.


	6. Neutron star

He was relaxing with a beer after a hard day's battle with the paperwork side of his profession when Eddie's face appeared on the news. Angel sat up instantly, a flurry of confusion sweeping through him.

_What's he doing?_

"Eddie 'Killbane' Pryor is the special guest on tonight's show! Jackie Reeves, our sports specialist, is live with him right now! Over to you, Jackie!"

A dark-skinned woman and Angel's friend sat beside one another in the cosy-looking chairs in the news office. Strong lights beat down on Eddie, a fine line of sweat trickling from behind his mask and along his neck.

"Thanks for coming tonight, Killbane. We're honoured to have one half of the Pale Riders with us. I'm sure your fans are wondering - where _is_ Angel de la Muerte this evening?"

Eddie laughed, voice jarring to the observing man, and turned to the camera. He stared past the lenses, past the cameraman, and into Angel's eyes: he spoke as if he knew the man would be watching.

"Angel couldn't make it tonight, but he wanted to send you something even better in his place... the Walking Apocalypse! And here I am!"

His arms spread wide as he spoke, movements exaggerating his words, and his huge chest heaved as he spoke. The interview went on, but Angel de la Muerte didn't hear a thing: it sounded like words were flung to and fro far, far way from his domain.

Muscles tightening and mouth dry, Angel continued to stare at the screen where Eddie, his _friend_, talked on in an interview Angel didn't even know was to air that evening.

"Yes, Angel is seen as the Herald to the Walking Apocalypse, a comparison that is worthy and fair."

_That's all I am to you? A Herald?_

Standing up, he frowned. Angel glanced down at his wet hand only to see he had crushed the can of beer in his fist. Crumpled, it spilled the cold drink all over his fingers.

* * *

"What kind of stunt was that?"

It was nine p.m, exactly one hour after the interview, and Eddie had finally answered a call.

"Angel, my Remus, isn't it obvious? We must branch out and do our own work from now on. We cannot be so reliant on each other, or jealousy may become a problem."

"Eddie, I'm not jealous, I'm just confused."

"How many times must I remind you to call me Killbane?" The ferocity in his partner's voice threw him, and for a moment, the line was silent as Angel rediscovered his rage.

"I thought we were in this together. For God's sake, we have businesses, we run a gang with our fans... we're a team, Killbane. And you're not acting like a teammate with this 'Herald of the Apocalypse' bullshit."

"Oh, so that's what it's about." The older man had found something to latch onto, and the conversation was as good as over. "My, my, Angel, I never had you down as one for feeling inadequate."

Angel sighed.

"That's not it. I'm just concerned about what you're doi-"

"Jealousy is one thing, but denial too?" Eddie tutted, and Angel cursed silently. His friend could be so difficult sometimes. "Just remember, the first step to overcoming a problem is acknowledging that you have one."

"I don't have a problem, Eddie, it's you-"

"_Are you testing me?_" His voice was thunder, his words, lightning. Angel could hear Eddie's deep, forced breaths as he calmed himself. The next time he spoke, his rasping voice sent a slice of cold fear along Angel's back. "Be careful not to fly too close to the sun, Little Icarus. It might be an old friend but you'll still find yourself under the waves of the ocean."

The line went dead, and Angel stared at the phone for a whole minute before placing it back on the receiver.


	7. Pulsar

Eddie Pryor challenged his best friend on live television.

Angel's beer and popcorn fell at his friend's words. _He can't be doing this!_ The cameras were on Eddie as he stormed around the ring, the roars of the crowd his anthem.

"And so, with the split of the Pale Riders, I would like to challenge Angel de la Muerte, the so-called Herald of the Walking Apocalypse, to a match." His beady eyes scoured the crowd, looking for Angel's masked face. The man had come to support his friend during his match, hoping to make it up to him after their violent fight the night before. Eddie did not forgive easily, Angel knew, but he thought it was a start.

The silence evaporated a chant broke out - "Killbane! Killbane! Killbane!" - and Angel de la Muerte sat in the back row, gobsmacked. He narrowed his eyes.

"This is the last time I'm going to be caught off guard, Eddie," he said to himself, standing.

"If you accept my challenge, be at this ring at seven p.m. three weeks today. The winner of the match gains the satisfaction of knowing he is the best, as well as taking over all enterprises and the Luchadores." Turning to the crowd, Eddie raised his arms; they bellowed in response. "It's time to end the debate about which brother, which Rider, is the strongest. I will prove to you that I am Romulus!"

The younger man tried to follow his friend - though he couldn't call him that any more - through the throng of pulsing, screeching bodies, but he could not squeeze past, even with his status. His mask was hidden by the sheer volume of flesh, and he pulled himself back, letting the crowd surge past him.

Within minutes, Eddie was out of his sight. His anger bubbled at the man's betrayal - how dare he - and he stormed off against the oncoming crowd, pushing his way back.

Keeping his head down, Angel slipped out of the front entrance, protected by the very people that sought him. He tried to ignore the excitement-filled chatter, gritting his teeth and diving into the comforting cover of a darkened alley. Leaning against the damp wooden frame of the building, he thought about last night.

Eddie had volunteered to take charge of the media for some time, and there was not much Angel could do to talk him out of it. The sailing had been smooth for a while - there were interviews and matches galore for them both, with splashes on either side where they attended alone - but the posters that arrived last night, before Eddie's big match, had spoiled it all.

"What is this?" Angel had opened the box of sample posters that were shortly due to be plastered all over the city to advertise their next tournament entrance. The sheet he held was a glossy green with Killbane's face spread across it. The words **See The Walking Apocalypse and his Herald in the Arena** were emblazoned across the bottom.

Eddie had looked over them, watching the way his partner suppressed his anger.

"They're posters."

"With your face on them. Only your face."

"Angel, we've talked about this before - jealousy repels the fans! They want to see a united front!" His arm was around the other man, the sleeves of his jade suit cool against Angel's hot skin.

"This isn't a united front! This isn't fair!"

"You know how this works - the public, they come to see me, so I must prevail on our posters. We must do what we can to stay in the good spirits of our people. You taught me the ways of publicity, Angel, and I see it now." He paused for effect, noting Angel's sagging stature, and waved his arm out and above him. "After all, what is a god without his worshippers?"

"You're not a god, Eddie. You're a wrestler. You need to tone down your ego and focus on your fighting." Angel spoke slowly and with great care, not wanting to set off the fireworks resting in his friend. But as tactful as he was, Eddie's quick brain latched onto Angel's point.

"Are you saying I'm not a good fighter?" Though he spoke softly, this eyes were ablaze. Angel's shoulder was free from his grip. The larger man stepped forward.

"No. But your form has been a little weak lately, and-"

"Enough!" Eddie stood rigid with rage. He pulled the poster from Angel's hands, shredding it with his thick fingers, before picking up the box and flinging it across the room with a roar.

Angel realised he'd had enough.

"You're acting like a brat, throwing things around when I'm trying to _advise_ you!"

"You forget," snarled Eddie, "who picked you up from the dirt and shaped you from clay and made you into the ungrateful man you are today... You dare accuse _me_ of being inferior!"

"You don't get it! You're a good fighter, but all this, it's going to your head. You're crazy about the fame and the glory, but you don't like to share!"

Eddie lunged for him, bellowing, but Angel evaded the attack. He scooped his keys from the table and ducked outside, entering his car and departing. His friend's screech accompanied him as he headed home.

Angel was jarred from his thoughts by the bustle of the homeless around him, circling the fire that heated a massive can. He watched the weathered, ragged men warm their hands atop the glowing flame, a seemingly inextinguishable radiance lighting their spirits. Some slurped their drinks noisily: they drank the cheapest beer money could buy.

Knowing he would have to work himself to the bone if he was to beat Eddie in a match, he realised he would have to train with the frenzy of an injured animal to match the brute strength of the Walking Apocalypse. Angel stalked away from the scene, resolving to beat his friend, if only to get him back.


	8. Black hole

**A/N:** _Just to avoid confusion, in the mission Murderbrawl XXXI, the commentators state that Angel was stabbed 13 times by a Luchador under the instruction of Killbane. It's canon!_

* * *

"My God, Bobby, I can hardly believe it!"

"This is it, Zach." The other commentator's voice was quiet, omniscient. "This is the end of a wrestling era."

Angel couldn't see a thing; the glare of the stadium lights broke his line of sight. But he could hear the silence, the endless, deafening silence that had fallen with him. Acutely aware of the pain in his legs, he knelt before the Walking Apocalypse, the man before him holding his true trophy up for the entire world to see. The lacerations on his arms - from that thieving, cheating son of a bitch Luchador he just _knew_ Killbane had called - soaked him in red. Deep cuts ran carmine, painting thick streaks onto his skin and trickling over his torso. And still he knelt on, the shock sinking in through his pores. Angel tried to open his mouth to say a word, any word, but his face felt too exposed, too visible, and his hands slowly rose to his bare cheeks.

An unseen cue triggered the crowd. Harsh clapping assaulted his ears.

Stunned, and with a dull awareness of everything moving around him, Angel froze. Killbane soaked up the applause, realising his motion had been authorised by any forces that might pick a fight with him, and swaggered off stage, leaping over the cords and pacing out through a well-lit corridor. The congregation clapped on. By the time Angel returned to his feet, the lights had dimmed and the hungry faces of the people that had once admired him, faces as bare as his own, stared.

But now they scorned him, seeing him as nothing more than a man, a man who had not only been defeated by a god, but ruined too. If the renowned Angel de la Muerte couldn't even hold his own against his former tag-team partner, what good was he at all? It was obvious now, even they could see it - the Herald had been holding back the Walking Apocalypse. He'd been a hindrance, a cage, and how that their idol was free, they clapped and clapped and clapped.

It was only a matter of time before the reporters swarmed in.

Angel was halfway out of the ring, his head rising higher with every step he took. His hand remained clamped around his left arm, where a deep wound bled vigorously, as he pushed his way through the crowd. They squeezed around him, chattering and babbling their rowdy questions, a drone of unwanted noise like relentlessly buzzing bees.

"Mister de la Muerte, how do you feel now that Killbane did what he did?"

"What do you think of your former tag-team partner?"

"Do you think what Killbane did is justified? Are you going to press charges?"

"Is Killbane in the right here?"

"Angel, Angel over here! Why do you think Killbane felt the need to unmask you?"

"Will you ever wrestle again, Angel?"

The man slowed at the last question, walk stretching until he stopped suddenly. The press strangled him with their very presence, and he resisted the urge to lash out at them.

"Move out of my path or I will break every bone in your body," he said, looking at every reporter in turn. A hush descended as the sea of people parted, and he walked out in silence. The microphones hung limply in the hands of the reporters, and flashes on lenses of the cameras diminished as he left the building.

Upon reaching the outside world, where the air smelled like tiredness and the smoke of the homeless' fires, where pinpricks of light brimmed over the horizon and seemed to form a looming wave waiting to crash down, Angel stood for a few seconds, before spotting more cameras. His set expression warded away any more reporters, for he appeared as if he would snap the neck of the next man who spoke to him.

His limousine glinted in the light, a sleek white vehicle, and he entered to find his coach sitting there with a blank stare. Angel glared at him. The man looked up, an apology scrawled across his features.

"Angel. You didn't deserve that."

"Get out."

"What?"

"I know you knew he was going to do that. Get out."

The man sighed. "I didn't know what he was going to pull. I had an idea he would do something, but not this. This is too much. Even for him."

"Get the fuck out of my car."

The old man sighed and complied, and as the chauffeur pulled away, he was but a lump of stranded grey flesh that the piranhas of reporters would devour. Angel didn't look back.

"Jackson, take me home." The driver nodded, a quick glance in the mirror revealing the man sitting rigidly in the back seat, back straight and chin jutting. When his head fell into his hands and his shoulders began to shake, the chauffeur offered just one piece of advice.

"The drinks are in the miniature fridge."

A moment passed where Angel did nothing. Then he reached for the door of the fridge, pulling out beer after beer, downing them too quickly as he leaned into the smooth leather and watched the world speckle by. Dots of lights merged into continuous streaks of amber that divided night into uneven strips, dark oil slicks just waiting to ignite.

The car slowed outside his casino, his gym, and his home-to-be for the next decade.

"It seems the media have also congregated here, Mister de la Muerte. If you wish, I can take you someplace else."

"Yes, Jackson. Please."

"Where shall we go?"

"If it's not too much… can you just drive around for a while? I'll tell you when I want to go back there."

"As you wish, sir."

The limousine vanished into the night, sliding into the velveteen dress of the black sky as Angel went on drinking, until he, too, found himself under the dark swathes of demise.


	9. Iron star

Awoken by the loud rumble of morning traffic, Angel sat up quickly, clutching his throbbing head. He looked around through partially gummed eyes, blinking and rubbing away the debris, only to find himself sitting on the warming tar of the parking area outside his casino. For a second, he wondered how he had gotten there.

Trying to stand was too difficult a task for his spinning head, so he leaned against the sturdy wall and sighed. _Was any of it real? Was it all a nightmare?_

Angel was startled to find he didn't know. All he knew was real was the coldness he felt on his face, the sudden gust of wind brushing his exposed skin. His heart dropped into his stomach and he lurched upwards, forcing himself to stand, an unsteady arm pressed against the wall supporting his body.

A rustling at his feet caught his attention, as did the blare of a horn as a huge van trundled past. Crouching down and pulling the newspaper free from under his shoes, he glanced at it, more out of curiosity than much else. His own naked face stared back at him, hollow eyes and drooping mouth revealed, and he dropped the sheet as if it were a hot coal.

_It really happened._

Sickness rocked his stomach, and he hoped he wouldn't vomit right there in front of passers by, who, no doubt, thought him just another homeless drunk. He willed himself on, patting his hoodie's pocket to find the keys and entering his realm.

As he closed the door, he leaned against it, sliding down into a squat. There he stayed, staring at his own home whilst waiting for his stomach to calm itself.

The strong contours of rising pillars on either side of the main desk were majestic - they'd welcomed endless new recruits, enthusiastic young men and women who thought they had a knack for wrestling. Angel trained them and train with them whenever he had time. But now, gazing at the shiny banner advertising his services, he doubted anybody would be caught dead in such a place. Rich red-gold paint brightened the room and quenched his spirits. The intricate spiral staircase glimmered at him, inviting him up and to the main area of the gym. His rooms were just behind, simple and sparse.

He needed to forget, and he knew he had the materials to help him in the cooler under his bed.

* * *

The tenth call came a week later. Angel didn't answer it, but considered whether it was worth keeping his cell phone anymore if all he was going to receive were bland, limp calls from his coach telling him to "get back on track". If the voicemail messages were anything to go by, Angel could guess the old man was getting tired.

_Good,_ he thought, _now he knows how I feel._

The journalists had been relentless, hoarding themselves outside his home like moths to a naked flame: some of them were even camping, eager to get the slightest sliver of a reaction from the man who had renounced the world.

_It's stupid of them to even be here. They know what the aftermath will be._

He sighed, glancing at the television's clock. It was ten forty-five, and the pizza man would be arriving soon.

Heaving himself up, he headed to the reception area of the gym, where he had begun to leave the exact cash for his daily order - the deluxe meat supreme only carried by Mario's Meat&Balls - and waited for the man to come and go. It was the most sociable part of his daily routine, and he loathed it.

The hum of the motorbike grew louder and clicked off, before the pizza man let himself into the building. Feeling disorientated, he spotted the flickering lights on the welcome sign and the sagging banner before he saw the cash on the table. Pocketing it, he knocked twice on the wooden counter to signal his departure, and after leaving the boxes, he returned to his motorcycle.

"What a fucking weirdo."

Angel overheard the comment, and he sighed.

The boxes were warm when he took them back to his room, slouching on the bed and tucking in. All he had done lately was eat and drink in excess, and he could feel himself getting heavier - not with the sinewy strength that allowed him to lift more weights, but with the kind of pressure that restricted movement - and he was beginning to worry about his health.

He had not felt the slightest inkling of happiness for seven whole days, yet he thought more about the fast-warming beer in his hands.

* * *

Angel's training regime was put into action one month after his humiliation.

An entire week of planning had gone into it, and he had drawn up charts and plans of how he was to execute his endeavour; his physical form was slipping, and he was determined not to lose that to Killbane too. His body was his own responsibility, and he wasn't going to let himself down.

But Angel's head wasn't properly screwed on these days, or at least that's how it felt to him. Punching and kicking, he followed the hollow motions one after another, the joy sucked from every training method he had perfected - he needed something new, something fresh. Something so unconventional that there would be no way Killbane would be the first thing he'd think about when training. Something which would restore the old bouts of joy wrestling had brought him. Something with the same thrill. Something with the same sense of pride and honour. Something insane.

He made a call and ordered three beehives to the gym that afternoon. They arrived after lunch - salad and water - and were placed in the back of his gym. The bees buzzed quietly, happy to be getting on with their work, when a fist invaded their home. Their wrath rose, matching his as they stung his hands over and over again, but he did not stop punching. Within minutes, both his hands had swollen up, and, though his face was drawn and white, he didn't relent nor cry out. Once his fingers were indistinguishable from one another he called it a day, camomile lotion and layers of bandages covering his hands for the evening.

Three days later, once the swelling had lessened and he could use the chopsticks for his takeout, he returned to the bees. They seemed angrier, somehow, because their first attempts at punishment had landed on deaf ears. It took but one and a half minutes for his hands swell again, and the same cycle of healing and hurting continued.

Angel de la Muerte eventually reached the point where the stings did not hurt any more. Sure, his hands still swelled; he still had to scrape out each stinger and he still used the lotions to soothe the lumps, but he didn't feel the stings anymore. It was as if his body had grown as numb to the pain as his heart had to the outside world; both were encased in protective layers of their own design, and healed as easily as they hurt.

He also knew his habits were improving - less beer, more salad, less TV, more punching - and he could _feel_ himself improving; it felt odd, and neither pleasant or unpleasant, but a sickening in-between state where not much made sense. But it was the path of progress. It had to be walked.

The punches never stopped, the kicks never stalled, and in every slam of his body against the sand-filled sacks was a drop of immiscible leaden hate, a drop that would never waver, but accumulate, slowly but surely, into a dark pool to fuel him for the years to come. It flowered from boredom, but would last longer than he could imagine.

They still talked about him, those men and women on the news who didn't understand, but only in relation to Killbane. He didn't know whether it was an improvement or not, but it didn't make a great difference - that mask, so beetle-like and repulsive, was perpetually on air - and Angel's name spilled from their lips with sordid fascination.

It is on those days where everything falls apart, and those days only, that he drinks like the first night. The next day, he heaves himself up through the bleary grip of a hangover and returns to the gym, fighting himself as well as his enemies. The universe, after all, dictates a star must die to be born.

* * *

One year on, the man had hardened.

His life was not equated to his training, his work, his mission. Training all day and everyday was no easy task; he worked until his sight blurred, until his muscles screamed louder than his hatred, until his head throbbed with the pulse of accomplishment. Every night he crashed into the flat mattress he called a bed and slept fitfully, only to arise before dawn revealed her smirk to train once again.

His aim was to break himself into a hundred thousand pieces, and let those pieces flake away. The new him, the diamond carbon had turned into, was solid and filthy, hard and rough, and sharp enough to gouge out Killbane's eyes.

Angel de la muerte would skin Killbane using his fingernails alone should the opportunity present itself. It was all he thought of when tearing sandbags apart.

The loathing he felt was calmer somehow, as if pouring his initial drops of rage into month after month of rigorous activity had subdued the fire in his heart and waved the heat from his mind. But the lead in his stomach poisoned him slowly, turning him rancid. He loved it. It was something to hold onto, and it was all he needed.

Angel wanted blood. He wouldn't stop until Killbane's life dripped through his fingers.


	10. Stellar remnants

Angel stood in his gym, the place now wearing away faster than the man from neglect. The paint peeled and mauled posters reigned, the bar had wasted away, and the casino equipment was disintegrating. He found no reason to keep up appearances - he no longer received visitors, anyway. Not that he minded. It was better for them to stay away.

He sat upon the dingy couch and watched the television, the beer in his hand cold and refreshing.

His habits had levelled out. Time had been not a healer, but an alchemist; his hate had turned to bitterness almost miraculously. The transition had been so gradual that the man hadn't seen it, and if asked, would still state his loathing for Killbane was what drove him. But the bees were freed from his wrath, and the sandbags had once again been replaced by dummies designed for the motion of being drilled into the floor. Though he wouldn't admit it, using real wrestling equipment again was enjoyable.

Beer had stopped being his right-hand man and had become a more casual friend, one to whom he turned when wanting to relax, and one he didn't see too often. The arrangement suited him fine; the distance suited him better. He knew he still had a reliance which couldn't be dropped so easily, but he could handle that. And there were bigger things to worry about anyway.

Maybe calling in during Killbane's biggest interview of the year had been a bad idea, but Angel knew he'd made it a hundred times worse with his chosen discussion topic.

"Phillipe Loren was a better leader than you'll ever be, Eddie." That was all he'd said, but it was enough. As red as a ripe tomato and twice as shiny, the visible skin beside Killbane's glowing mask ignited with indignation. Angel's words had been curt and sincere, and whatever witty reply the man had prepared was useless: Angel hung up instantly. The news crew took over, babbling over an enraged Killbane, and as he stood and stormed out of the studio, Angel did something he hadn't in some time: he chuckled. Despite what he told himself, the move had been tawdry, reckless, and he'd pay the price. It was okay. It was all okay, because the face of the Walking Apocalypse had been worth it. If he was going to die now, he was glad that'd been the last face he'd seen.

When the first wave arrived, Angel barely noticed them. The dull thrum of Compensators new, and the raucous clanging that was not typical of an evening were his only signs: it was the sound of a dragon being pieced together outside, sharpening its teeth and baring its claws. It took only a second for dear to vanish; he rolled his shoulders and sighed. The TEK Z-10 was at his feet, a little way from the wrestling dummies that smelled like dirt and sweat. _It's not worth the effort._

He would change his mind fifteen minutes later, when the beasts that were supposed to

smash through his doors did no such thing. If anything, he swore the hum had quietened, and angry chants and cries seemed to be bouncing off the walls of his cave and into the city. The shrieks weren't aimed at him.

And still he continued, smacking his elbow into the dummy's midriff, slamming both his

body and plastic onto the worn wrestling mat. In thirty seconds, when a stray Luchador thought it a good idea to try and ambush him from behind, he would repeat the maneuver on the insect's form.

It was then that the door burst open, and the strangest sight he would ever see greeted his eyes.

A woman, dark-haired, made-up, and armed to the shining pearls in her ears, sauntered in, cocking her dual black pistols in his direction. Her skin was shiny and tanned and matted with dirt, but Angel's gaze didn't stay on her long enough to spot this. Next to her was a man with a ridiculous hat, a massive gold pendant, and skin darker than his own. Angel stared at the other man accompanying her, a golden microphone stick in his hand and… was he wearing a_ bridle?_ All Angel knew for sure was that the man showed too much skin for his liking, and wore too much leather, which, surprisingly, didn't cover much. Cringing, his attention was caught by the giant standing behind the mismatched pair. Despite his colossal size, his angry, alert eyes and bloodstained cream suit soothed Angel.

"You're not one of Loren's brutes." The way the dead man's name rolled in his mouth was delicious, like light smoke.

"And you are not one of Killbane's Luchadors." The giant carried a heavy Russian accent, and Angel looked behind him: a splintering crash drew the attention of the woman, the man, and the gimp, and they followed his stare. The barred doors gave way and the beetles poured in, luminescent in the hazy brown light.

"No, but they are." The woman reloaded her gun, the clack of metal on metal echoing through the room.

"Showtime," he muttered, and, after glancing at the unlikely allies he'd been sent - they were allies, of course, for nobody had ever attacked the Luchadors with such force before, swiping at them as soon as they entered - the ex-wrestler reached for his sub-machine gun. _Just this one battle,_ he thought, _just this one fight. Then I'm done._

Though he would never acknowledge it, the arrival of the Saints would be the reason for everything to come. The Herald of the Walking Apocalypse died that night. White fire sparked in his chest, and he grinned. Even if he didn't know it, this was rebirth.


End file.
